


Rain and Scars

by tiptoe39



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Injury, M/M, Rain, Sharing Body Heat, hurt diggle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:46:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diggle's been shot. They're on the run from the Triad. It's raining. They seek shelter....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain and Scars

**Author's Note:**

> _thank you[dotthings](http://dotthings.tumblr.com) for the edit!_   
> 

The footsteps have faded, and John exhales, some of the pain easing out along with his breath. A minute later it’s back, though, welling up in the draining adrenaline, and he shudders hard, burning where the bullet pierced his arm and freezing everywhere else.  
  
The rain was merciful when they took cover, washing away the trail of blood that would have led the Triad right to their hiding place, but it’s soaked them through, too. And if John doesn’t pass out from the loss of blood and the pain of the bullet, hypothermia might do him in. His body can only fight so much at once.  
  
It doesn’t stop him, when Oliver props him up against the wall and insists on having a look at his wound, from saying “It’s nothing.”  
  


Under the hood, Oliver’s expression is hard to gauge, but John’s pretty sure he’s raising an eyebrow in disbelief. But he doesn’t linger on the attitude; a minute later he’s easing John’s arm forward, and John groans, a gritted-teeth noise that makes him sound to his own ear like a wounded animal.  
  
“You’re losing blood,” Oliver says. He looks back and forth with a huff of frustration, tears the hood from his head and wraps it around John’s arm. The soaked fabric sends a wave of cold up to his shoulder, and it’s almost a relief, a counterpoint to the heat of the wound. John relaxes,watching Oliver pull the makeshift tourniquet taut, knotting it.  
  
Lightning flashes outside, and the fogged windows of the broken-down warehouse let in just enough light to illuminate Oliver’s face. The green war paint he wears is meant to disguise him further under cover of darkness, so in light it’s incongruous, drawing more attention to his features instead of less. The blaze in Oliver’s eyes is brighter even than it is when they spar and chat in his hideout, when he’s out of costume. Wearing half his mask, Oliver is more exposed than when he wears none of it.  
  
There’s a scar on his neck that John’s never noticed before, a white line that runs just under his jaw. If it weren’t for the angle, and the sudden flash of lightning, John might have never seen it at all. It’s a lightning bolt in itself, jagged and barely there, and John’s fingers stir at his side. He can imagine touching it, feeling the slight raise of the skin, the delicate unevenness of it. He wonders if Oliver would gasp, or pull away, or let him. He wonders if Oliver would tell him how it came to be.  
  
Oliver shakes hard, and in a rush of frustration he pulls away and yanks off the vest and cape he’s been wearing. John doesn’t blame him; they’re soaked to the bone, and if he had both arms to work with he’d already have shed his own drenched shirt. He fidgets in place, tries to ease it up over his chest, and Oliver sees what he’s trying to do. He grabs an arrow from his quiver, slices John’s shirt, and cuts away most of it, leaving only the sleeve around the wound untouched.  
  
The drains on their body heat are gone, and in this broken-down shelter the rain can’t touch them, but Oliver’s still fighting back intense shivers. John leans forward. He’s always been nothing if not practical, and he knows what needs to be done.  
  
“Whoa,” Oliver says, his voice breaking, as John pushes himself against Oliver’s body. “You’re hurt, you shouldn’t,” but he doesn’t pull away, and after a second he relaxes, hands sliding around John’s waist to help support his spine. “Diggle, for Christ’s sake, lean back at least.”  
  
John relents, easing against the wall again, but Oliver’s hands stay where they are, trying to ease the tension in his muscles. His chest presses down against John’s, their bodies warming where they touch skin instead of air, and Oliver’s head drops, his forehead brushing against John’s shoulder blade as he exhales and lets the shared heat flow through him.  
  
“Nice hug,” John says. “We gotta talk about our feelings now, you know.”  
  
Oliver laughs, the vibrations ringing into John’s skin. He can feel Oliver’s cheek where it lifts in a smile.  
  
A minute later, Oliver’s head lifts, too, and there are his eyes again, weirdly bright with the makeup surrounding them, like they’re stealing the green hue and reflecting it back. Some sort of trick of the light, but even with the greenness they’re almost translucent. John just stares, unaware or uncaring of the lack of distance between them, his arm a dull throbbing in the background. The rain swallows up all the noises of the street so it’s just them, and their labored breathing, and raindrops, and the sound of John’s own heartbeat.  
  
There’s no reason their lips come together. They just do. It’s part of the cycle of breathing, part of the throb of their bodies. One minute they stare, the next Oliver’s mouth is pressing against his, and then they exhale and it’s gone again.  
  
Another breath, another rush of raindrops clattering against the warehouse roof, and Oliver’s forehead is against his, bleeding warmth into his brow and his temples. Oliver’s lips are parted, and in his peripheral vision John thinks he sees them trembling. Is he cold? If he is, there’s only one thing to do. Only one thing John wants to do.  
  
He tips his head forward, eases his mouth under Oliver’s. Oliver starts, then tilts his own head to fit his lips over John’s again.Now the heat is flowing between them in earnest, their breaths and heartbeats feeding each other. John swears he can feel Oliver’s pulse fluttering just under his lips, beating up through the flesh where John dares to suck, accelerating minutely with each moment. He lifts his free hand, wraps it around the nape of Oliver’s neck, fingertips working up into his hairline. At the touch, Oliver groans. Heat leaps in the base of John’s belly. His chest rises, pressing against Oliver’s, expanding with the breath he sucks in.  
  
Oliver crests against him, then pulls back, startled. “Oh, God,” he mumbles, fighting to control his breath. His lips shine in another flash of lightning. They’re trembling. Panic glitters in his eyes.  
  
“It’s gonna be fine, Oliver,” John says. “You’re gonna be fine. You’re safe.”  
  
“I should be saying that to you,” Oliver says, and his voice shakes even as he smiles.  
  
John’s arm throbs, and he winces. “Yep,” he says, fighting through the pain, “you should.”  
  
Oliver snickers, letting a soft puff of air out through his nose. “Diggle,” he says.  
  
“You could call me John.”  
  
The way Oliver stills, John can tell he’s never considered the possibility. “John,” he tries, lips halting around the word.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Oliver grins. He looks almost sheepish. “I, uh—” He lifts a hand and touches the corner of John’s mouth. “I think I’m gonna kiss you again. John.”  
  
John nods. “Yeah.”  
  
He does — they do — mouths coming together as easy and natural as the first time. And it’s good, it’s hot, Oliver’s tongue tentative against John’s lips, then sliding between them. At the first lick of his own tongue John tenses, heat plunging through his body, and he grabs Oliver’s head with a wide-fingered hand and hauls it in closer. His injured arm is still pulsing, but the blood in his body is racing everywhere now, making everything sensitive and yearning for touch. His cock is hardening in his pants; his whole body is alive with the sensuality of Oliver’s chest pressed up against his, Oliver’s mouth opening and exploring his, Oliver’s hands on his back and easing up his spine to dust fingertips on the back of his neck. It’s so alien and unexpected, but at the same time utterly natural. Like their bodies had only been waiting to come together like this. The paradox blows John’s mind.  
  
He leans forward, tracks his mouth across Oliver’s skin, brushing the scruff of his stubble and down to his neck. Oliver’s Adam’s Apple moves under his mouth, and the rasp of an uneven inhalation sounds against his ear. John can taste raindrops on Oliver’s skin, and the salt aftertaste of washed-away sweat.  He knows how Oliver’s brow must be furrowed, how his teeth must be gritted to let out the noise he’s making now. Trying so hard to regain control, as he should, really. And so should John. He’s got a bullet in his arm, after all. They should be leaving this place, getting to a hospital, coming up with a cover story…  
  
Oliver’s hands dip to John’s hipbones, pulls his body in close. John’s thighs part, and Oliver slots between them, solid and furnace-hot. There’s no chance of them stopping now, not before seeing this through to the end.  
  
The beating throb of John’s wound has turned into some obscene kind of background music to this… this whatever-it-is they’re doing, this pornography of violence and lust they’re caught up in. It’d be different if John thought he’d lose an arm for this. But he doesn’t. Partly because he’s not thinking, period.  
  
His hips crest up and find Oliver’s, the strong stiff heat there nearly felling him. He groans low, hovers with his hips in midair, rolling them in a slow canting circle against the heat of Oliver’s erection, the nestled warmth of his balls. Oliver’s groan is a low, savage thing, and he learns forward and drowns it in the skin of John’s shoulder. His chest rounds, then flattens against John’s. So strong, so solid and good. John gasps, tries to find his breath again. He finds Oliver’s mouth instead, lips capturing his and pulling taut, until John’s lower lip is stretched far and opened wide for Oliver to dip his tongue into the wetness beneath. John can do nothing but growl to protest the invasion. His hands have dropped to Oliver’s ass and are guiding it in for crest after crest of their flesh together.  
  
He wants, sometime later when they have more time, to reach around and feel Oliver’s cock through his pants, wants to knead and mold it there, feel it lengthen and harden in the tunnel of his fingers, watch Oliver’s face when John’s wrist twists slightly and Oliver has to hold back a cry. He wants to have Oliver on his knees, reverent, taking John’s cock into his mouth. The images, filthy and probably impossible, pour in a sudden deluge, breaking over John’s head like the rain. They’re potent fantasies, and they make his cock pulse hard against Oliver’s as they grind together in a rhythm as excruciating as it is slow. John is a man of action. He’s used to sharp thrusts, pounding and slamming his way to orgasm. But this is all just a slow grind, hard and hard rocking together in tandem, and it’s as explosively hot as any other encounter he’s ever experienced. He’s fighting for breath, letting his lips be ravaged by the insistent snarl of Oliver’s mouth.  
  
Where his good hand slides across the dip of Oliver’s lower back, tiny raised welts make their way under them, leap into John’s consciousness. It must have been awful, whatever happened to bring them into existence.  He can’t help seek them out, trace them like lines of a spiderweb. He wants to know them all. And with each line, Oliver stiffens,delete pours more barely controlled groans into his mouth and crests harder against him, the drag of his cock a drug that shoots hot addiction up into John’s bones. He wants more. His own pumps keep accelerating.  
  
He remembers the scar under Oliver’s chin again, and the curiosity and desire takes control. He wrests his lips from Oliver’s, fastens his mouth there instead. For a moment he can feel Oliver’s pulse pumping under the dead white of the scar tissue, and the rain is beating outside in triple time. It’s like the world is shattering in easy, even pieces all around him.  
  
He sucks hard, and Oliver cries out, savage, in his ear; then he breaks into shudders, and warmth spreads against John’s groin, undeniable. John fights for breath, his mouth flying open, and he digs his nails into Oliver’s skin, holding tight as he loses control of his own pistoning hips. It’s so close, the release, and Oliver’s desperate pumping and almost-whimpers are sending waves of heat over him with every second. John’s muscles aren’t his own anymore. He’s shuddering, pressing himself against Oliver, wanting, seeking. His head flies back.  
  
Oliver sucks on his pulse point, a delicious mirror to where John had touched his lips to Oliver’s neck only a few moments before. “Come on,” he growls, the guttural voice of the Hood, powerful and insistent. “Come on, Digg. You’re good.”  
  
“Shit,” John hisses through gritted teeth. “Shit, Oliver, I—” Fear rolls up through him in shivering waves that fight the tide of want.  
  
“It’s me, Digg.” Oliver murmurs. His voice eases. “You’re safe. Let go.”  
  
John clutches his arm. His jaw is clenched and his muscles are taut. He’s right there, riding the edge, eyes squeezed shut. Pleasure as bright and sharp as pain is lighting him up. His own panting breaths are ringing in his ear. The dull throb of his injured arm is a distant counterpoint.  
  
“John.” Oliver brushes his lips over John’s, one kiss. “Come on.”  
  
John opens his eyes. Bright green, sharp as the points of arrows.  
  
He gives a quavering cry, and the string of desire pulled tight inside him lets go in a rush. He comes hard, hips dragging raggedly against Oliver’s, breath taken in a great gulp and let out in a hard shout. The orgasm pulls every ounce of strength from him, takes his whole body and condenses it to a single point of pleasure, and then dissipates, like an exploding star, sending hazy dots of pleasure out to every inch of his skin. His already-soaked boxers will be sticky as hell when he finally peels them off.  
  
Oliver grins above him. He waits for John’s breathing to even out, then says, “Think we’re clear.”  
  
John looks up. His head is pounding with rushing blood, but the rain has eased to a slow drizzle, and there’s no smell of exhaust in the air, no movements or footsteps around them. If they’re careful, they can get out of here unseen, make it back to their hiding place and get the damn bullet out of John’s arm without anyone being the wiser.  
  
And then, maybe, they can face the thornier problem of what the hell just happened between them. But first things first.  
  
Oliver eases him to his feet, pulls his own discarded vest over John’s good shoulder, and wraps his cloak around himself in a makeshift tunic. With John leaning on his shoulder, they struggle to the warehouse door. Oliver pulls his bow out, eases it through the door first, then takes a peek out. “Clear,” he whispers, and steps forward.  
  
John follows him. They move, quick and silent, through the alleyways to safety. And when the threat is gone, when John eases himself down onto the table to let Oliver tend to his wound, the expected awkwardness is gone. Oliver works with his usual grace, grinning and cracking a joke that makes John scowl at him.  
  
All that’s different is that, when the wound is sewn up and John is flexing his arm to make sure it’s working right,  Oliver spreads his palm out on John’s shoulder and lets it linger there. His thumb moves in a slow caress. John wishes he weren’t so aware of it, but it isn’t weird. It’s natural, as natural as the way their mouths and bodies came together.  
  
Maybe what happened doesn’t need to be a problem at all. Maybe it can just be them.  
  
He gets the feeling that’s what Oliver wants. And John’s good with it too. Some things don’t need explaining. Like why it rains, or how a scar came to happen. Or why it is, when Oliver kisses him next, John just kisses him back.  
  
Some things are just natural.  
  



End file.
